


The Heart of Sherlock Holmes

by HumsHappily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Fluff, M/M, Makeup Sex, Swearing, Viclock, Victor was a spy for the record, mentions of scar, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart. Not one that he showed in public.</i><br/>There were a select few that were aware of the existence of his heart, Mrs.Hudson, John Watson. Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. Mycroft, occasionally, though such an occurrence was very rare. Heart in this case, being a metaphor for Sherlock, and his inability to express emotions in anyway that could be deemed “healthy”. <i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes did not have a heart. Not one that he showed in public.

There were a select few that were aware of the existence of his heart, Mrs.Hudson, John Watson. Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade. Mycroft, occasionally, though such an occurrence was very rare. Heart in this case, being a metaphor for Sherlock, and his inability to express emotions in anyway that could be deemed “healthy”.

What Sherlock showed instead was a flair for the dramatic, a stubborn personality, a habit of getting into trouble. Hidden deep, however, was a romantic streak a mile deep. Only one person ever saw the latter, and his name was Victor Trevor.

 Victor had met Sherlock in university, when his dog bit Sherlock on the ankle. Sherlock had stormed off, limping away after shouting abuse at the man. Victor had watched him go, one hand holding the collar of his dog, the other on his hip.  The next day, the first day of the new school year, Victor had thumped his books down on the desk next to Sherlock.

 “You must be joking,” Sherlock growls.

“Never,” Victor responds, sticking out a hand “Victor Trevor, pleased to meet you properly.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to face the front of the class.

This script was followed every day for the first two weeks of class, until one day Victor stuck out his hand, and Sherlock took it.

 “Sherlock Holmes. Now, would you please stop with the inane repetition?”

 Victor grinned. “You and I are going to be very good friends, Sherlock Holmes.”

 And surprisingly they were.

 Sherlock was eighteen and Victor twenty-two when they met. They got each other through university, lived together in a tiny flat in the city. Then Victor went away. Sherlock heard nothing from him for years.

Until, one day there is a call from Mycroft, and Sherlock pales, fork clattering to his plate. John and Mary watch as Sherlock rushes from the restaurant. John tracks him down later, finds him kneeling at the side of a hospital bed.

“He’s mine, John. He’s always been the only one. ”

John nods, and sets the long black coat Sherlock had left behind down on the chair. Then John sits and waits with Sherlock through the night, watching the man in the hospital bed.

 Unlike most things that go away, Victor had come back. Like many things that are found again after a very long time, Victor had been damaged.

 ======= 

“Victor, please,” Sherlock says, holding out a plate. “Just take it?”

“For God’s sake Sherlock, I said I’m not hungry," Victor replied, gloomily.  He has a pair of headphones popped in his ears and is sprawled out across the sofa, hands folded across his chest.

 “You need to eat,” Sherlock says, taking a grape from the plate and tossing it to bounce off of Victor’s forehead. “You need to eat to get healthy.”

“Sherlock, I’m not going to get healthy, dammit," Victor scowls, sitting and turning his head toward the man.

 “How do you know?” Sherlock asks, coming forward and reaching for Victor’s hand.

 “Because I’m blind Sherlock. It isn’t something that just fixes itself with time!”  Victor cries angrily, tearing his hand away. “This isn’t something you can deduce the answer too, something that just goes away with food and rest. It’s for life!”

“Don’t yell at me! I just want to help you! God, you always do this!” Sherlock snarls back, wounded by Victor’s rejection, wanting to touch, to comfort.

“Who says I need help? Who said I wanted to live here with you and your…your pity?” Victor replies, shaking.

 “Victor, I don’t pity you!”

 “You and I both know that’s a lie! I can’t see the way you look at me, but I’ll be damned if  I can ignore the way you sound when you talk to me!” Victor says, rising from the couch and moving away. Sherlock jumps up to catch him, but Victor falls anyway, bumping into a footstool Sherlock had moved to the side earlier. His hands fall forward, catching himself as his knees hit the ground.

 “Victor.” Sherlock moves forward, but stops as Victor holds up a hand.

 “I’m not helpless, Sherlock. I’m not broken. I’m not to be pitied.”

“I don’t pity y—“

 “Then show me that!” Victor cuts him off, roaring from where he kneels on the ground. “Christ, Sherlock, show me that I’m not just some _thing_  you’re putting up with because you _felt fucking guilty_ that I got hurt! Show me that you don’t think you’re saddled with me because my eyes don’t work anymore! ” Victor bows his head, shaking with rage and embarrassment at his outburst.

 Sherlock staggers back as Victor yells, catching the arm of the sofa and holding on for dear life. He is helpless, this kind of anger unknown, no previous data to extrapolate from.

“I’m just trying to help...” Sherlock says quietly, the silence bitter iron and heavy. 

“Just…leave me alone right now.”

Sherlock turns away. He moves, taking his coat from the hook, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

As the door to the flat shuts, Victor collapses, burying his head in his arms. He sobs, loud in the silence of the empty flat. Sherlock pauses outside the door, and shakes his head at the noise from within, almost going back, but going down the stairs instead, making his way out into his city.

====

 When Sherlock returns, Victor is asleep on their bed. There is a note on the beside table, a scrawled   _‘I’m sorry’_  barely legible on the yellow paper.  London is quiet outside their flat, the fast falling rain keeping everyone inside. Sherlock sheds his damp coverings, crawls onto the bed. He has plastic taped over his chest, crinkling with the rise and fall of each breath. He looks down at it, glances to the clock glowing in the corner and removes the tape gingerly.Victor stirs once, and Sherlock freezes as he mumbles something incoherent, plastic gathered in his hand. But Victor’s breathing evens and Sherlock slips down beneath the blankets. The plastic ball makes a soft ‘thunk’ as it lands under the wardrobe to gather dust. And then the bedroom is quiet once more.

=====

 It is only three days later when Sherlock enters the sitting room and turns off the television. Victor likes to keep it on, listen to documentaries while Sherlock works in the kitchen. He walks over to the couch, and pulls Victor up by the hand.

“Sherlock?”

“Will you come with me please?” is all Sherlock says, leading Victor into the bedroom. He sits him down on the edge of the bed and Victor can hear the slither of silk as Sherlock’s robe pools on the ground. The soft pat that Sherlock’s t-shirt makes as it flies into a corner of the room. He feels the bed dip as Sherlock gets on the other side, and Victor turns to face him, pulls one knee to his chest, bends the other as he leans against the headboard.

“What are you doing Sherlock?” 

There is a silent pause and Sherlock moves forward. His hands reach out, unbuttoning Victor’s cardigan, pulling it off his shoulders. His hands slip under the hem of Victor’s shirt, cool against Victor’s skin.

“Sherlock?” Victor says again, as his shirt is pulled over his head, landing somewhere to his right. “Answer me, please.”

Sherlock lets out a sigh, and Victor feels the mattress move as Sherlock leans back on his heels.

“I’m showing you that your eyesight being gone…doesn’t mean you can’t see. I’m showing you that you’re worth it, that I don’t pity you. That I think you’re whole.”

Sherlock shifts forward, pressing a kiss to Victor’s lips. “You can’t see me. You can’t see how my entire body reacts to you. I’ve measured it. When I’m in your presence, my heart beats increase by four beats per minute. My temperature goes up half a degree, my cheeks flush and my pupils dilate. Feel.”

Victor gasps as Sherlock takes his hand and raises it to his heated cheek. Sherlock dragged Victor’s hand down from his cheek, letting it slide over his body until Victor’s palm was resting upon his hip.

“When we argued, I went out. I walked for hours, took the tube to the other side of London. I needed to show you how much I want you. How much you mean to me.” Sherlock moves to straddle Victor’s lap, and leans down to whisper in his ear.

“I needed to find a way to show you I am yours.” He brings Victor’s hand up, placing it over his heart. “Feel this.” The skin on Sherlock’s chest is scabbed, and Victor reflexively pulls away, terrified to cause harm. Sherlock scoffs, and grabs Victor’s hand, folding it so his index finger is pointing straight at Sherlock’s heart. He moves it closer, and forces Victor to follow the pattern of the rough skin. 

“It’s…” 

“A tattoo,” Sherlock says. “Tell me what it is.”

 “I don’t..I can’t see it,” Victor replies, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Feel it,” Sherlock growls, leaning forward to take Victor’s mouth. Victor’s fingers are hesitant as he moves them, feeling softly across the rough skin. 

“My name?” Victor gasps out as Sherlock kisses down his neck. 

“Yes..” Sherlock hisses as he nips at Victor’s collarbone.  

“Why?”

“Because, I…am….yours,” Sherlock replies. “You can’t see with your eyes, so see with your hands. Feel how my heart beats for you only for you. No one else." 

“Sherlock…” Victor groans, arching up under him. “I want you.” 

“Then show me.” Sherlock murmurs in Victor’s ear, sliding onto the bed to lie beside him. Victor sits up, and straddles the detective, grinning.

“I plan on it.”  

 ======

 After, bodies sweaty, sheets tangled and hearts considerably lighter, Victor turns to Sherlock with a grin.  “What color?” 

“What?” Sherlock asks, turning his head to look at the man.  

“I don’t know what color your tattoo is,” Victor snorts, smacking Sherlock lightly on the chest.  

“Just plain black script,” Sherlock replies, pillowing his head under one arm. “I’d like to add more I think.”

“It’s not going to be easy.” Victor says, eyes closed, face turned toward Sherlock. “It’s going to be painful. Tough, sometimes.”

 “I know. But I’m in it for life now aren’t I? I have a remarkably high tolerance for such things.” Sherlock slides his hand over to grasp Victor’s. He turns his head, kissing the scars that web across the man’s face.

And as both men know they are not talking about tattoos, the point is made.

Together, forever, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.

Till death do they part.

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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